Coming in from the Cold
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: John returns back to Baker Street tired and lonely. He just wants someone to hold. Who would've imagined that his wish would've been answered in the form of his sociopathic flatmate?
1. Chapter 1

Snowflakes fell around John as he walked. He zipped his favourite black military jacket before stuffing his hands in his pocket. As much as he loved the jacket it certainly wasn't pulling its weight in keeping him warm.

John didn't actually consider himself to be a sentimental man but he couldn't escape the thought that his hands would be much warmer if someone else's were intertwined with his.

He didn't know why he felt quite as depressed as he did. It wasn't as if his day had been particularly trying or upsetting. It wasn't as if Sherlock had uttered some scathing criticism and he hadn't blown up any thing in the flat.

He just felt sad. He felt lonely.

He had Sherlock…but somehow Sherlock just wasn't enough. Or to put it more accurately, couldn't give him the kind of attention he wanted. He wasn't just talking about sex, if he really wanted that he could just pull some slapper at a pub, what he wanted was someone just to hug and hold.

It was horribly sentimental, and he cringed at even thinking about it. He, Doctor John Hamish Watson, veteran of Afghanistan, wanted someone to hold him. It was ridiculous.

He walked slowly through Regent's Park. He'd decided to take the scenic route back to Baker Street, hopefully managing to clear his mind before he faced Sherlock. But the hauntingly beautiful snowy landscape offered no condolence.

He made his way past the Open Air theatre, recalling the time Sherlock had taken him to see Gershwin's '_Crazy For You_'. Sherlock had dragged him out of the flat; he expected it to be another case but was more than taken back when they'd arrived at the theatre. Throughout the whole performance he expected some kind of assassin to leap out at them, but no one did and it had been quite a pleasant night.

He'd seen a side to Sherlock that night that he'd never seen before. Sherlock was calm, relaxed and sociable. Sherlock claimed he was oblivious to modern culture but his knowledge of the arts was quite astounding.

He realised he was smiling stupidly and immediately stopped, silently scolding himself for being so ridiculous. He sighed and watched as his breath, warm from his body, became visible in the cold and floated softly upwards.

John never particularly liked the cold and certainly not now since he was paying the price for his lack of layers, especially on his legs. Somehow, jeans weren't the most snow-friendly of garments.

He was halfway across York Bridge, concentrating all his effort on trying not to slip and dislocate a hip. Laced up Loafers weren't the most reliable shoes to be wearing on iced pavements.

The walk would usually take twelve minutes max but he'd spent the better part of seven minutes walking over the sodding bridge. Eventually, he escaped the park and its frozen grasp.

The black door of Baker Street loomed at him as he approached. A strange wave of apprehension washed over him as he walked up the steps. He reluctantly pulled his hand out of the pocket to get his key out of his jeans. The old lock took his key reluctantly and John made a mental note to pop to a locksmith when the snow melted.

The heat that washed over him was gratefully received as he peeled his jacket off his frozen frame once inside the hallway. The smell of stale coffee hit his poor nose, causing him to recoil slightly.

He hated coffee. John was a tea man through and through. It wasn't just the taste he didn't like; it was the smell and the aftertaste it left. He couldn't stand anything coffee scented.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his leg practically screaming at him to sit down. The stale coffee smell emanated from the living room but strangely enough no noise accompanied it. All was silent in 221B, which unsettled him for some reason.

"Sherlock?" John spoke as he opened the door to the living room expecting to see the lanky figure of his flatmate somewhere. But Sherlock was no where to be seen.

John ran his fingers through his soaking wet blond hair. He wondered where the detective could've gone to.

John knew Sherlock wasn't on a case because Sherlock would have dragged John along with him and Mrs. Hudson would have pretty much leapt at him as soon as he stepped through the door.

John pulled off his damp jumper and placed it on the back of the sofa, deciding to put it in the dryer after he'd found Sherlock. John made his way up the stairs, his curiosity driving him on. He decided to try looking in _The Black Hole of Baker Street_ or as it was more commonly known; Sherlock's bedroom.

He knocked gently on the door and received no reply. John knew it was probably hypocritical of him to walk in considering he'd given Sherlock a right bollocking last week for walking into his room whilst he was getting changed.

"Sod hypocrisy." John walked in and stopped in his tracks and as soon as he'd registered what he saw he mentally kicked himself.

The lights were on and Sherlock sat upright in his bed…fast asleep. His left arm dangled lazily off the bed, holding a book in his hand. Sherlock looked so peaceful and vulnerable as he slept. John backed silently out, hoping his sudden arrival wouldn't wake the detective up.

John smiled to himself and shook his head. Sherlock was a remarkable man, an impossible man and extraordinary. Somehow reality and all its normalities didn't seem good enough for Sherlock Holmes. That was why John adored seeing the moments where he was _human. _

The stench of coffee made John crave tea as he made his way back to the living room. He realised that for once he could read his newspaper in peace. With that prospect in mind John made himself a cup of tea before pretty much collapsing into his favourite chair.

The newspaper heralded no interesting news. Just mediocre reporters writing about the 'fascinating' lives of celebrities or publicising the utter stupidity of a bloke who'd driven his car into a lake because his Sat Nav told him to.

John chucked the newspaper next to him, feeling slightly disgusted at the world for being so mundane. He looked at the bookshelf but quickly decided he wasn't in a reading mood. He drummed his fingers on the armchair.

He decided to go to bed; thinking that a few hours of sleep would improve his mood. He pushed himself up off the chair hearing more clicks than he'd care to admit. He sighed heavily before turning to the door.

And stopped when he saw Sherlock standing there. His hair was bedraggled and his pale blue pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown was as dishevelled as if he'd been turning frequently. His knuckles had turned white from where he clung to the doorframe desperately. But it was his puffy red eyes that were firmly locked on him that startled John.

"Sherlock." John hid his surprise and regarded his flatmate calmly. He ran a doctor's eye over his friend's current state. Silently working out if drugs played any role in his friend's current state.

"John." Sherlock spoke in his usual tenor voice, a deceptively normal voice belied by Sherlock's current condition.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine. Thank you."

John nodded slowly. He'd have believed Sherlock if he'd missed the slightly edge in Sherlock's voice when he spoke. John moved towards his friend, without saying a word he placed Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and placed his arm around Sherlock's hip.

He walked his friend to the sofa. Sherlock walked but put more weight on John than he really wanted to. John gently lowered him onto the sofa.

"What happened? You were sleeping nicely when I walked in."

Sherlock stared down at his curled toes. "Nightmare." He muttered almost inaudibly. _Almost. _

John heard it but didn't comment; instead he started to go towards the kitchen to do a very British thing and make them both a cup of tea when he felt Sherlock's hand grab his arm desperately.

"No. Please. Don't go, John." Sherlock's bright blue eyes looked up at him pleadingly. The man looked terrified.

John felt something clench in his chest. He'd never seen Sherlock so frightened before. Sherlock, the calm, collected, precise, logical, emotionless thinking machine was begging with him through teary eyes. And John had absolutely no idea why.

Sherlock's iron grip was still on John's arm, holding him where he was.

John smiled sadly. "Do you want to talk?"

Sherlock reluctantly let go of John's arm, he lent back in the sofa and pulled his knees chest, clutching them tightly. He looked like a lost child as he stared wide eyed into the distance.

John knew that Sherlock didn't normally react well to physical contact but whenever anyone was this shaken the only real medicine that would help was a hug…even for a sociopath.

John sat on the sofa next to Sherlock; he shifted to the furthest end, his back leaning against the arm as he brought his legs up. He opened his arm to his friend. Sherlock looked nervously at John, he didn't move and for a second John thought Sherlock wasn't going to do anything but then the world's only Consulting Detective collapsed into his friend's arms.

John wrapped his arms around him protectively, holding him tightly. Sherlock's breathing deepened as his tense body slowly began to relax into John's chest. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly brown curls, whispering comforting words in his ear.

John didn't push him to talk; he just held him until he felt his body loosen and his breathing became slow and even which signified he'd fallen asleep.

John was horribly uncomfortable as he had the whole of Sherlock's weight on him, but watching the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the wonderfully peaceful expression on his face more than made up for his discomfort.

John planted a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

He knew he'd have to have a serious chat with himself about his feelings towards his flatmate/friend/partner in crime but at that particularly moment, he just enjoyed the sensation of having someone to hold.

He never honestly wanted to see Sherlock in that kind of state again, but if it meant he got to hold him like he was doing and comfort him, then he didn't entirely mind if Sherlock had another nightmare…especially since a small smile had appeared on the Detective's face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Coming in from the Cold**

Chapter 2

John didn't remember falling asleep, he just remembered watching Sherlock sleep in his arms. The next thing he remembered was tilting his head sideways to rest it on the back of the sofa and then nothing.

He did remember being awoken a few times by Sherlock moving but the detective stayed firmly planted in John's arms. But it was the sensation of a cold hand on the side of his face that startled him into consciousness.

He looked down to see Sherlock biting his lip nervously. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I just…moved your hair away from your face."

John yawned. All was dark in the flat and since the curtains hadn't been drawn, he could vaguely make out the twinkling London landscape outside.

"Your hands are freezing." John mumbled sleepily. "Give them 'ere."

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you want my hands?"

"Just give." John gently held both Sherlock's hands in his and brought them up to his lips, he blew out slowly.

Sherlock looked at John curiously, cataloguing every sense he felt and trying to compare them to similar experiences but finding none. A shiver had run up his spine as soon as John's hands touched his. His breathing practically stopped when John had brought his hands up to his lips, those pale, thin lips.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as John breathed on his cold hands. His touch was so delicate, so gentle, so unlike the doctor's normally iron grip. John stopped warming Sherlock's hands up.

Sherlock was about to beg him not to when leaned over to his chair and pulled off the blanket, he covered them both with the fury black throw. Sherlock's head was once again resting on John's chest as he tucked the blanket up to Sherlock's chin. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest.

"Warmer?" John whispered as he rested his cheek on Sherlock's soft curls.

"Considerably so. But, you're not comfortable."

"Shh. I'm fine. Just go back to sleep."

As much as he wanted to listen to John, Sherlock knew that John's spine would suffer in the morning. He wriggled under the blanket to wake John up.

"No, you're not comfortable." Before John could argue Sherlock lifted himself up off the sofa, reluctantly tearing himself away from John.

John frowned at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

"You won't be comfortable there. We need to go to bed."

John rubbed his eyes. He glanced down at his watch and saw it was half one. He sighed as a wave of tiredness hit him. He knew he didn't have the energy to argue so he agreed, secretly disappointed that Sherlock had broken the contact between them.

John rose, swaying slightly but regained his balance quickly. Sherlock picked the blanket up and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Through his tired, blurry eyes John almost smiled at the sight of Sherlock draped in a fury blanket and staring at him through hooded eyes. He looked cute. John almost laughed at the notion in his head. Sherlock definitely wouldn't appreciate it.

John sleepily followed Sherlock up the stairs. Watching the Detective's graceful movements in awe as he tried in vain to match the grace in which he climbed the stairs.

Sherlock stopped at his bedroom and John moved to walk past him when Sherlock stopped him. His bony hand rested on John's arm.

"Stay with me?" The underlining message being; _'Please don't go, John.' _

Those steel grey eyes implored him. John knew he was powerless to say no. He half-heartedly grumbled to himself that Sherlock always got his own way but with the prospect of holding Sherlock once more, John silenced his complaints.

He nodded and curiously noted how Sherlock's shoulders sagged in relief. His voice sounded so small when he spoke.

"Thank you."

Sherlock started to go into his own bedroom when John grabbed his hand. "Uh-no. My bed is bigger…and has more blankets."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he put up an argument but stopped. He nodded slowly before following John to his bedroom.

Sherlock silently marvelled at how very suited John was to his bedroom. It was very precise and clean, no doubt from so many years in the army but it was nostalgic too as he had pictures of his parents, Harry and pictures of when he was in school; all happy times.

Sherlock stood awkwardly by the bed whilst John, completely oblivious to Sherlock's turmoil, climbed into bed. It was only until he realised that he was alone no one joined him that he looked at his friend.

He pulled the bed covers off of the empty side and looked up and Sherlock. "Well? Are you joining me or not?"

A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. Moments later, his lanky form down on the bed, next to John. Sherlock rest his head on John's shoulder and couldn't help but smile.

John knew it was the only chance he was going to get, even if he had no idea how Sherlock was going to react but he knew that he had to do it. For himself.

John kissed Sherlock.

At first the detective didn't move and John feared he'd badly miscalculated but slowly if not unsteadily, Sherlock kissed him back; running his violinists' fingers through John's messy blond hair.

In that moment, the two men felt something for one another that they had struggled for so long to realise; they felt _loved_.


End file.
